Happy Birthday, Fred
by Pompadour
Summary: One-shot. Set four years after Voldy went Moldy. I am totally not obsessed with the Weasley twins. Nope. Nuh-uh.


_**A/N: This is a pretty pointless one-shot I typed down for Fred's Birthday. I have not attempted to copy J.K Rowling's writing style, although I have borrowed her characters. Everything else belongs to her, too. And yes, for those of you who don't know, Fred Weasley's birthday is April 1st.**_

* * *

It was four years after Voldemort fell.

The sky was crimson, the colour of blood, streaked with hazel brushstrokes where the red faded into a cloudy abyss. The Forbidden Forest looked as though it had been set on fire, and the wind blowing through the foliage only added to the effect. It was magic: the serene, natural kind that no enchantment could ever compare to.

But no one was looking at the Forest today - at the arrival of fall in all its glory. Perhaps it was just the stark grimness of living memories, but as he stood by the gravestones of fallen warriors, Harry felt eleven years old again. He was clutching at a bunch of dahlias, the only kind of flowers he had been able to find. He felt as though he owed all these people, these people who had fought and died for the wizarding world - for _him. _It was wrong to feel guilty, he knew, and it wasn't his fault. And yet he couldn't help it as a tear slipped down his cheek and fell onto the ground; a dark splotch against the dirt. More proof that he was living and that they were not.

Hermione sniffled from beside him. He knew she had tried not to cry, and that she was only trying to be strong for Ron's sake, but it could have mattered less. Ron was sitting cross-legged on the grass, staring into the distance. His face was even paler than usual, and his eyes were red and swollen, rivaling his bright hair. But his face was dry, as though his eyes had run out of tears and he was crying vapours instead. He mumbled something under his breath, and returned to staring at the sky, then at the ground, only to look back towards Fred's gravestone and hide his face in his hands. Harry shifted closer to his best friend, and he and Hermione sat down on his either side. No one spoke, and then Ron said suddenly:

"It hurts less every day."

"What?" It was Hermione who had spoken softly - the first words she had said all day.

"Yeah," said Ron, eyes glazed. "I woke up this morning, and I had to force myself to remember what day it was. It's still hard to believe. And whenever I see George, I can hear _his_ voice in my head, saying 'Ickle Ronniekins.' It's just - hard to deal with. But I think - it gets better." He had lost track of himself now, lost track of what he was saying. It was almost like he was speaking to himself, then he got all distant again. He looked at the sky again, and this time, he smiled.

"It's getting better," Ron said. He looked at his two best friends and laughed at the grim expressions both Harry and Hermione were wearing. "Toss me a flower," he said, pointing at Harry's dahlias. He got to his feet awkwardly, and then placed the flower beside Fred's grave. The stone was made of marble, and the epitaph was in clumsy, black lettering, where George had written it himself: _I could write something cheesy and sad here, but I just want you to know that no one wore dress robes at your funeral. _Irony in its cruelest form.

Hermione leaned into Ron's side, and he hugged her close. The two made their way down the hill, walking towards Hagrid's hut where the rest of the Weasley family was, but Harry lingered. He watched the smoke spiral upwards from Hagrid's chimney, and then he bent down to place a few of the flowers by Fred's grave. Some he placed by Lupin and Tonk's, and the rest by Colin Creevey's. He wished he could summon more flowers somehow, but these had been the only kind in the greenhouse that didn't have fangs or squirted pus at you. Pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the gravestone so another inscription appeared there, in bright red lettering. He cocked his head at it, and gazed at it with some scrutiny. He'd gotten better, although the writing was just _slightly_ less lopsided than on Dobby's grave.

_It's the thought that counts, _Harry thought, pocketing his wand. And he sat there as dusk faded to night, listening to the cries of the thestrals, and the songs of the wind. Just listening. As he rose to leave, he glanced back at the gravestone once more; the inscription in red gleamed at him like fireworks in the night. It read:

_Happy Birthday Fred._

* * *

The starlight shone in through the window, filling the tiny apartment above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes with a clear, opalescent light. George Weasley was hunched up by the window, staring up at the moon, and speaking clearly through the silence.

"I didn't visit you today, Fred. I didn't have the courage to. I didn't have a present either, but that wasn't as important," he laughed - a hollow, empty, colourless laugh. "I don't feel like much of a Gryffindor anymore," he mumbled.

The wind whisked by, pattering on its silent feet, and the light of the gas-lamps cast haunting shadows down the cobble-stoned streets. A single figure walked up the path, and as it neared the window, George saw that it - she - was as dark and beautiful as night herself.

Angelina.

The bell tinkled as she entered the shop, but George remained stationary, gazing out into the night. He heard footsteps make their way up the stairs, and then someone rapped on the door. George heaved himself to his feet and opened it.

"Happy birthday," she said. She had brought a cake - pink with blue icing, and a birthday message written across it in loopy, ridiculous cursive. George smiled.

"Happy birthday, Fred," he said, before reaching out and smashing the cake in Angelina's face.

And passersby who heard George's echoing laughter wondered what kind of grief man had to go through before he could laugh so free.

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**~Fin~**

**(Sorry, couldn't resist.)**


End file.
